COOKING WITH THE CAMERONS. CHICKEN KIEV.

This is the six o clock news from the PBC, the home of institutionalised noncing, AND Chris Patten, with me, Huw Welshman.  And the top story is the rioting in some Russian shithole - angry ragheads, angry neo-nazis, angry communists and angry lesbian pop groups, I shouldn't fucking wonder. Oh and some braindead,  angry cops. Gay most of them, coppers, same the whole world over. And as for fucking Russia, well it's run by gay gangsters isn't it, look you, boyo. And Vladimir Putin?  Don't start me talking, bent as a nine-bob note, as we used to say back in Merthyr Tydfil, when I was a lad, isn't it.   Over now, anyway, to Downing Street and that fucking numptie, CallHimDave.

Now listen, lessbeclear, just like everyone else, Mrs prime  minister and I like  nothing more  than sitting  down watching Cruelty TeeVee, and having the butler serve us  a plate of mini chickenKievs, on  a bed of Evesham asparagus,  with some Dauphinoise potatoes  on the side, washed down with a nice Mouton Cadet Rothschild.  Now, lessbeevenmoreclear,  the Ukraine capital, Kiev,  is named after this very tasty British chicken dish, created in, Oh, I dunno, Melton Mowbray, isn't it,  and we cannot sit idly by and let all this happen, whatever it is;  the police probly attacking the citizens.  'Snot as though Kiev is London, after all, where that shit happens all the time, no, certainly not, lessbeabsolutelyclear, the mini chickenKiev industry is vital to our economy, countless highly skilled and poorly paid  workers are engaged in reclaiming all the under-utilised bits from chickens - the lips, the eyes, the beaks, the claws and the bowels and so on, all perfectly delicious - 

 mixing it all up in a big sort of bowl thing, adding some chicken flavouring, colourings and stabilisers and what-not, rolling it into tempting little balls, dipping it in delicious crumb coating and then injecting it with a garlic-flavoured synthetic butter product, quite ingeniously made  from petroleum by-products

 so that all the busy housewife has to do when she comes home from her badly paid zero-hours contract employment is pop the delicious little chicken Kievs in the microwave and have her butler prepare the asparagus and les pommes dauphinoise, best to let the Mouton Cadet breathe for a while, so the footman can probably do that before the working Mum gets home. It's easy to see why a Russian city would want to name itself after such a delicious part of British cuisine.  Team Nigella?  No, no, I shouldn't think so. Don't think she does mechanically reclaimed meat. Unless you mean her tits and her big fat arse  Cocaine??? Instead of garlic?? Now look.  Let me make this clear, I am on record as saying that we have all done things when we were younger which should never be mentioned.  How much younger? Well, yesterday. Simply not fair to quiz me about what I said or did yesterday.  

And I'd just like to remind people of the other aspect of BrandKiev which is that while it may be true that the employers in this fine, traditional British industry are too mean to pay the workers a living wage and so the taxpayer has to help them out with scrounger-benefits this doesn't matter because with the money they save on wages the employers are able to make significant donations to  the Conservative party, so, the country, in a very real sense, gets the money back.  Tax?  No, I don't believe you have your facts right, they actually pay a rate of 0.010 per cent and not the 0.001 per cent  you wrongly stated.  I am sure you will agree that this is a huge saving to the Treasury and further evidence that the Chancellor, the Governor of the Bank and the CBI are all lying from the same hymn sheet.  Mr Coulson??

Well, as I've already said, I believe in giving people a second chance, And a third and fourth and fifth.  But only, lessbeclear, if, like myself, they work for Mr Murdoch.

And they help me stay fit and trim, those mini Chicken Kievs.
I mean, look, how can we let some rioting Russian  gay people jeopardise such a vital part of our, um,  thing, the GD wotsaname. 'Snot as though I didn't invent gay marriage for them.  I did. But,  and it is in my judgement a very big but, lessbefair, miniChickenKievs are bigger than all of us, gay, straight or Hagueish.

So that's that, then. As a  scholar, myself, and a distinguished military historian I am happy, not only to have been able to rescue the nation from whatever it was that we are all together against, but to have been able to deliver this small lecture on history and geography, and, of course, gastronomy; if only Mr Gove could recruit teachers as able as myself; if only, some might say, poor Mr Gove was in his right mind, and not a dribbling, delusional, spit-flecked nutter.

That was the unelected prime minister for you there, outside number ten Downing Street and FuckMeJesus he really is as thick as pigshit, isn't he, all that money squandered on his education.  That other cunt's at it again, too,  the Yorkshire Fairy, William Miscarriage,  he's  gobbing-off, look you, like he does,  about what he will and will not put up with, like anybody gives a fuck;  Syria all over again.  Emphatic this, emphatic that, stupid cunt, blustering his poxy arse off. Mark my words, viewers, and I don't want to put you off your teas or anything, isn't it,  but some big Russian fairy'll grab him and give him the old Balalaika Shuffle  up the jacksie,  that'll shut the stupid fucker up, look you, boyo.

HIGH NOON IN KIEV.

Sings: Do not forsake me, Oh, my rentboy.

I must say that in my judgement an  international response is necessary to all this homosexual rioting, blahblahblah,  especially the dykey ones and I and my fellow foreign ministers are discussing sanctions and immediate and far-reaching changes.  Just as we did in Syria, which we don't talk about now, even though it was a triumph of diplomacy.  For Mr Putin and his team.

 

The United Kingdom condemns these actions whatever they are in the strongest terms. And thank fuck to get out of Westmister for a spot of bumtourism.  By permitting such action to take place, the Ukrainian government is putting itself at odds with reasonable opinion all across the world, he blethered. 

My cock remains on the table, I mean my options, we are ruling nothing in and ruling nothing out. 

It is not right to describe protesters as terrorists, although it is exactly how we describe strikers and poor people back in the UK. And disabled people. You may say that ay great many of them are simply seeking ay better future for their country but in fact, mr tiny speaker, what they are doing is seeking to subvert  the efforts of ay democratically unelected govament, consisting of talentless, criminal hypocrites such as my right honourable and determinedly heterosexual self.
I think the European Union has to act in a way that helps to stop the violence. There has to be an international response to what has happened over the last few days, whatever it is, fucked if I know.
It is time on all sides for people to turn away from violence, apart, obviously, from the very necessary violence towards vulnerable people which is the hallmark of any responsible govamant,  but the Ukrainian government bears a particular responsibility to take the lead in making sure that happens. So there. And I would remind people that I speak as a sixteen-pints a night man.

It is one of the more distressing aspects of my later life that this revolting creature, Hague, head polished, teeth filed and corseted into his ridiculous suit'n'tie outfits minces round the world claiming to speak for I and my ordinary fellow citizens. Like the obnoxious, blackmailing fairy, Mandelstein, before him, Hague is the darling of MediaMinster's degenerate horde;  oh, I could wet myself when I hear him speaking, so clever, so erudite, say most Tory MPs. And he's fit, too. Fuck him, the freak; fuck all MPs,  I hope he dies of the arse-pox.

Young-ish love in happier days, young Chris with fists clenched, perhaps in memory, perhaps in anticipation, perhaps both.
 
Yes, Chris and I sleep together but just to save money on hotel bills, says millionaire homosexual.